Adventures of a Lifetime
by deGorgeous
Summary: Future fic. Christmas Eve in the town of Storybrooke, as seen through the eyes of the Jones family's youngest member. My gift for my CS Secret Santa over on Tumblr.


He awakes in a fit of laughter, long fingers tickling his belly, under his arms, the bottom of his feet—anywhere they can reach. His giggling and pleas for mercy only makes her continue with greater enthusiasm until he's thrashing against his nautical-inspired comforter and cotton sheets.

"Bad form, mommy," he says when he's finally able to catch his breath.

"Let me guess," she responds, distractedly fixing the slate hair that's fallen all across his face. "Your dad taught you that." Charlie nods proudly, sitting up in bed while his mom continues to fuss over him. "Well, breakfast is almost ready, sailor. And it's gonna be a big day today so start getting up."

Emma kisses him on the top of his head before heading downstairs. The smell of bacon and pancake batter seem to fill the whole house, invading his room and making him even more impatient to race down the hall and leap over the steps two at a time until he reaches the first floor, landing hard enough to get the attention of both his parents.

"Morning, lad," Killian laughs from his seat at the kitchen table. His own hair matches his dad's, spiked up and mussed from sleep. He's wearing the navy blue pajama set Charlie and Henry gave him last Christmas, he notes with delight, though the bottoms have become frayed at the ends from their overuse.

Charlie skips over to the table, his father pushing out the chair to his right with a nudge of his foot, while he takes a sip from his mug— _'It's a Pirate's Life for Me'_ written in chunky lettering on the side—and resumes his reading of the morning paper.

It's another few minutes before his mom announces that the bacon is done, and then his dad is briskly rising up from his seat to join her. Killian turns off the stove while Emma stands vigilant over the browning pancakes, spatula in hand. He leans over at the same time she does, meeting in the middle for a kiss that lasts longer than Charlie would like.

"Yuck," he mutters, turning around in his chair and swinging his feet as he waits.

His eyes wander over the living room, honing in on the giant pine tree in the corner by the window, covered in ornaments and tinsel, with unlit string lights that he helped put up last week. What really grabs his attention, though, are the rows of presents that lay beneath it. He'd counted six for him in total (may have even shaken a couple of them when his parents weren't looking to test their contents) and his little fingers itch to tear into them.

"Eat up, my boy." When he faces front again, he's welcomed by a plate of stacked flapjacks and strips of thin pork that've been shaped into a snowman. His dad pours a generous amount of syrup on the top before doing the same for his own breakfast. His mom takes the other seat next to him, foregoing the maple sweet when it's offered to her.

"When are we expected at Regina's?" His dad asks before stuffing a hefty portion of pancake into his mouth, earning a chortle from Charlie.

"Seven, I think," Emma answers, gesturing at her bottom lip for Charlie to wipe off some crumbs from his. "But I promised I'd help set up, so more like six-thirty."

"You heard that, lad?" Charlie moves his head up and down in acknowledgement, responding with a muffled 'mmm-hmmm.' "So you know what that means."

He sits up straighter at that, then replies. "Be ready to go so we don't keep mommy waiting." His dad grins in approval, ruffling his hair affectionately. "That's _good_ form," Charlie adds, giving his best attempt at a pointed look to his mother for her earlier antics.

-/-

His face is practically pressed up to the bathroom mirror, smacking lightly at his cheeks while his father does the same right next to him, covered in a plush white robe that matches Charlie's pale yellow one. The glass mists from the fog of the shower that still lingers in the air. His dad's face glistens from the shaving gel, and he in turn splashes water on his own to achieve a similar effect.

(Killian glances over occasionally at his son from his periphery, chuckling softly at Charles' exertions, but he plays along, pretending not to notice.)

He watches as his dad lathers up, taking his razor—one he's been told on several occasions to not touch, lest he get a twin scar like the one his father has—and meticulously starts applying it first to his jaw, close to his ear, then moves it along and under his chin in a sweeping motion. Charlie picks up a thick-toothed comb from the sink and mimics him, craning his neck whenever his dad does and furrowing his brow in concentration every few minutes.

When he's finished, Killian takes a fresh towel and dabs his face, reaching over to Charlie to dry him up as well. "Fine job," he praises, adjusting his head so he can get a full look at his son's work. "Didn't miss a single spot."

Killian, however, still retains most of his facial hair, sporting just a trimmed version of his scruff. He gently bumps Charlie off the little stool on which he had been standing, shooing him off to go get dressed and see if his mother needs anything.

When he gets to his room, there's a pair of black slacks and a grey dress shirt laid out on the mattress. He sees that his mom's favorite bow-tie is missing and he sighs in relief. _He's not a baby any more, you know._ He takes his time putting them on, careful not to wrinkle them (just like his dad taught him).

"You doing OK in there, sweetie?" His mom calls out from the other side of his bedroom door, just as he's done buttoning up.

"Yeah," he chirps, and she enters.

"Look at you!" She beams, bending down to his level to brush off a few stray threads from the fabric and to smooth down his slicked back hair. "You look so handsome!"

"You look pretty, too, mommy," he says. Her dress matches his shirt in color—though it doesn't have sleeves and he wonders if she'll be cold—and it sparkles whenever she moves. She smiles at his words, making to stand and offering her palm up for him to take.

"Alright, buddy. Let's go."

-/-

The moment they step into Regina's house, they are greeted with loud cheers and warm smiles by his grandparents and brother. Hugs are exchanged between all of them before all the attention is focused on him. His grandma talks to him in a funny voice, her grin so wide it stretches across her whole face.

Grandpa David puts his hands to his knees, his expression matching Grandma Snow's. "You've gotten so big since the last time I saw you!" he exclaims.

"We saw you two days ago," Charlie says incredulously, throwing up his hands then bringing them back down on an exasperated exhale. His response has everyone snickering, except his grandpa who just shakes his head.

"It's anybody's guess which side of the family he gets the sass from," David says to his parents before continuing to ask Charlie questions. "Refresh my memory, little guy. How old are you again?"

He holds up all five digits on his right hand, plus his thumb and index on his left.

"Wow, you're basically a grown up, huh." Charlie nods emphatically in agreement, his eyes lighting up. "Maybe you should sit at the grown up table tonight then?"

"Can I, please?" He looks up at his mom and dad, bouncing on his heels in excitement. Emma and Killian look at each other in contemplation. His father drums his fingers along his chin while his mother scratches her head while looking convincingly torn.

"I don't know," Emma croons, now facing back at him. "Do you think you can handle it?"

"I can, I can, I promise!"

"Well… then I guess…" she drawls, picking him up and bringing him close to her. "Yes, you may." She proceeds to attack him with kisses, which he'd be embarrassed by if he wasn't so thrilled. Henry comes to his rescue shortly thereafter and extends his open hand in a high-five to celebrate the small victory.

"You can sit next to me," his brother suggests, and Charlie accepts instantly.

(What Emma don't tell him is that Regina's already planned on accommodating the dining room to only have one large table set up for all the children and adults to be arranged together. But she lets him think an exception was made for her growing boy).

-/-

As dinner winds down, Charlie struggles to keep stay awake, chasing the remaining peas on his plate with his fork lazily. He'd eaten every last bite of his food, though, which earned appreciation from his mom from across the spread. It's the largest meal he's had in recent memory, even outdoing their family's Thanksgiving a few weeks back.

His parents are feeling similarly sluggish, leaning against one another, his mother's head nestled in the crook of his father's neck. His grandparents shuffle back and forth from the kitchen area into the dining room, taking Regina's fine china from one room to the other and clearing out wine glasses and cups. They gently shut down offerings for help, and Snow whispers something to Emma and Killian as she takes their dishes. His parents simply smile in return, his dad mouthing a sincere 'thank you' before she goes back to join David by the threshold.

Henry seems to be the exception, still in animated conversation with Roland—whose seated to his left—for what feels like forever. On Charlie's other side is the nice lady from the library, who herself in engrossed in hushed talks with her husband.

He meets his mom's eyes when he looks up and she flicks up her thumb, silently asking if he wants to leave. "Yes," he responds quietly and somehow she hears him, tugging on his dad's arm and relaying their decision to him.

They get up and say their farewells, their embraces less lively than when they arrived but with more emotion and tenderness. They take longer than Charlie had expected, his own goodbyes lethargic but polite.

"Can we go now daddy?" he asks, pulling on Killian's cuff.

"Not yet, lad." He kneels before him, tucking Charlie's scarf under his arms and pulling his coat tighter around him. "Why don't you help us find Regina? We have to thank her for hosting us this evening, and then we can head home. Sound good?"

The first place he thinks to look is upstairs, near Henry's room. He scans the hallway but sees no sign of her, but the walk is helping his wakefulness. He sprints down the corridor, peaking into quarters he's not entirely sure he's allowed into, and then he hears something. Or rather, someone. He moves nearer to the sound, trying to make it out. It's coming from behind the bathroom door all the way at the end of the hall.

Charlie knocks, hearing muted, indistinct clamoring and running water. "I'll be right there!" Regina calls out from inside.

"Thank you for the food!" he shouts back, competing with the static of the tap. "We're going home now. See you la—"

He's interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door. Regina sniffles and shakily flattens her hair, greeting him with a close-mouthed quirking of her lips.

"Charles, honey, I'm happy you liked it."

He knows he should tell her his parents are looking for her, and he plans to, but her somber, troubled expression stops him. He's never seen her like this. Not really sad, but not as overjoyed as his grandparents were; as she usually is around him. He also knows better than to pry. _It's not the way of a gentleman_ , his father would say, but he can't help looking past her and into the restroom as he tries to make sense of it.

On the shut toilet seat he sees a white stick, sort of like a tooth brush but without the bristles. And there are two red crosses painted on it. It reminds him of the clock on his nightstand, except these lines look more faded, not as bright.

Regina follows his gaze and catches what he's staring at. He looks away at lightning speed, biting at his lip in unease at being caught. But she only softens, her shoulders relaxing, a more genuine smile gracing her features.

"Can you keep this just between you and me?" she breathes, not upset at all with him. She seems elated, even, but still on the verge of tears. He doesn't know what secret he's keeping; doesn't have the faintest clue what that stick does, but he puts out his hand for her to shake anyway, which she takes. "You can tell your parents I'll be with them in a minute."

"I will," he says, waving then turning around to get downstairs. He's at the bannister when he steps back and goes over to her again, poking at her leg. "I hope you feel better."

-/-

He collapses onto the couch when they finally arrive home, not even bothering to take off his peacoat, but making sure to keep his shoed-feet off the upholstery. He sinks into the cushions, listening as his mother's high heels click against the wooden floor, and feeling his body elevating as his dad's weight sinks into the place beside him.

All thoughts of his tiredness are forgotten, however, when he spies his mom bending down near the Christmas tree, watching it come to life as she turns it on like she does every night. The numerous gifts are illuminated by the flickering of gold and green and red. He rolls over onto his side when he feels his father's palm caressing at his forehead soothingly.

"Had a good time today, my boy?" He moves his head up and down in response, yawning and fighting to keep his eyes open. "I'm glad. You know, you were such a good guest at dinner, I think you deserve a reward. Don't you think, love?"

Emma joins her two boys, taking off her shoes and padding over to them before sitting down on the rug. "I think he definitely does."

"How about, you can open one present, right now." Charlie shoots up at that, bouncing in his spot, darting glances between his parents before lifting up and rushing over to the tree.

He sifts through the wrapped boxes and festive bags filled with tissue paper, and selects the heaviest one, a long rectangle that he hadn't been able to inspect properly, it's card reading: _'_ _For my awesome (little) younger brother, Merry Christmas, Love Henry.'  
_  
"This one!" he announces, dragging it from the pile as his dad picks it up the rest of the way back to the coffee table.

They help him tear at the decorative wrapping—and Emma makes sure to save the card—and when Charlie snatches a middle chunk of it away, he gasps in amazement. It's a real lightsaber, just like the ones Henry and Roland have, and he squeals with glee as he jumps up and down.

His parents chuckle at his reaction, helping him remove the remaining paper. "You like it?"

"I love it! Can I tell Henry?"

"You can tell him in the morning, sweetheart." His mom pecks his temple, restraining herself from attacking him again. Charlie takes it out from it's case, with their help, and then he's spinning and twirling it through the air, sound effects and swooshing noises emanating from him with no end in sight.

He tires himself out eventually, past his bedtime, and then he's being ushered to his room with warnings of Santa not being able to visit if they're all not asleep. But Charlie can't think of anything else that Santa could bring him. "What could be better than a lightsaber?" he mumbles as he's being tucked in.

It's already decided this is his favorite Christmas ever.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I was originally going to name their son Liam since that's been a favorite head canon of mine, but in lieu of the 5A finale I went for a name I thought would be still cute (and a nod to Hook and Emma's time traveling adventure), Charles._


End file.
